


Our Today

by badjujuboo (miztrezboo)



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: M/M, Reincarnation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-29
Updated: 2011-12-29
Packaged: 2017-10-28 10:11:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,785
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/306780
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/miztrezboo/pseuds/badjujuboo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur lies there still, waiting for Albion to call on him. And Merlin, well, Merlin waits. How many times can he say goodbye without really being able to say it all? (Canon, reincarnation, major and secondary character death as you'd expect..)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Our Today

**Author's Note:**

> Plot bunnies need to leave me alone. That and Queen and The Highlander movie—Who Wants To Live Forever is basically the reason I wrote this in the first place (and when I was done it had been played oh, 400+ times on my iTunes not to mention however many extra on my iPod). Endless thanks to my beloved beta Su and Roamercorridors because she's pretty and stuff!  
>  **Disclaimer:** Merlin and its recognisable characters belongs to the BBC and SHINE and I own near to nothing but sad times.

**Our Today**

It was quiet. Almost too quiet. Maybe whatever words he had spoken, the incantation left his lips without a thought—without an understanding of what they meant but said all the same—maybe it had caused this hearing loss. Or maybe it was what had happened before it.

Arthur.

Fallen.

Alive no longer.

Merlin couldn't even see Mordred now. Didn't care if the man-boy was left with a body—perhaps it was better if he wasn't. Who would need to mourn him, anyway? Not now, not after he'd taken the greatest King Albion had ever known and slain him on the field of battle without a care in the world. They would remember Mordred's name, but not with affection. The whole country, however, would grieve for their King.

Arthur.

Arthur who Merlin was holding. Arthur who Merlin was touching—his well-defined brow, delicate eyelids that Merlin had just closed, a mouth that would never twitch at the side as he called Merlin all the names under the sun but never meant one—well, not in any hurtful manner. Lips that not even now would Merlin allow himself to press his own against. It would be something too final, too much like an end that Merlin couldn't allow himself to believe was warranted. Not now, not yet.

Not when there was so much they could have done together. So much for which Arthur and Merlin's destinies were entwined.

His fingertips mapped the surface of Arthur's face, the grit of dirt and stickiness of blood from the battlefield all too present under his soft touch. Merlin's tears helped ease the grime away. There was no hope for his golden hair, a matted mess from being trapped under his helmet for so long, now stained with the pink bloom of blood from the cut on Arthur's forehead.

It wasn't supposed to end this way. They were meant to do so much more. Defeat Morgana, bring a peace that Albion had never known to all its land and shores. Rule justly and wisely with Merlin and Arthur's knights by his side.

"Merlin." A single trembling voice broke into the void. Merlin didn't look up, couldn't take his eyes from his King. He felt the weight of a hand on his shoulder, felt the deep press of fingertips in understanding through the thin chainmail that Arthur himself had forced upon Merlin that dawn.

"Merlin, we should . . ." Gwaine started.

 _Should what?_ Merlin wanted to ask. What could they possibly need to do? Arthur was gone but _not_ gone. Merlin knew that. He wasn't completely sure how he knew or what the spell was that he'd commanded, but he _knew_ Arthur wasn't entirely here, nor was he entirely gone.

Another voice appeared beside him, the thick and weary tone of Leon—Arthur's most trusted Knight and advisor, second only to Merlin himself. "What, what did you do before Merlin? There was so much light and then men were . . . what happened to Arthur?"

Merlin was still unable to take his eyes from Arthur's prone form. He couldn't find the words with which to answer.

"Maybe we should think about moving him, moving what's left of us. Morgana is still out there."

This pricked at Merlin's current state of numbness. Morgana was still alive? After all that Merlin had done?

"I saw her run myself. Gods, Merlin, I very nearly ran myself. What did you do?" Elyan this time. Had they all survived? Merlin wanted to look, to see the grief he knew they shared with him and find comfort in that, but he couldn't. There was still Arthur, and Merlin felt pinned there by the loss so large, so encompassing, he felt if he stood he'd fall simply from being torn in half by its weight.

"She ran? Why did you not go after her?"

There was quiet, but now Merlin could hear the sounds of men in pain, the tinkering of armour being shifted and the whisper of wind blowing the smoke of battle across the now-razed field.

"He fell. He wasn't meant to fall, Merlin. He's Arthur." Percival's tone was completely devoid of emotion. Almost as empty as Merlin felt himself. Of course Percival would have been with Elyan; their friendship had only grown through their years together, always there at each other's backs. Probably fending off errant swords or arrows as they made their way through the throng. Safer together than apart. Much like he and Arthur were.

Had been.

Should have been.

Stupid dollophead, running off into the fray instead of letting Merlin _protect_ him like he was supposed to. It really was mostly Arthur's fault. His and Mordred's.

A burn of satisfaction made its way through Merlin's frozen form. At least he managed that.

"Mordred? Morgana's men?"

"Gone. What you did back there, Merlin? One moment they were and then, they _weren't._ What did you do?"

Merlin shook his head. Gone? Had he really caused that? Had the loss of Arthur been so great that he'd taken on the thousands of soldiers and one powerful Warlock and reduced them to nothing?

"Is he? Is he really?" Gwaine asked, not saying the word, as if to say it made it more real. Gwaine's hand and strength were still ever-present at Merlin's side, and Merlin discounted the urge to lean into them. To seek comfort that Gwaine had given in the past, that he knew Gwaine offered still, but even now he couldn't find it in himself to take. It had always been Arthur, and always would be, no matter how one-sided.

"Yes and no," Merlin said, his fingertips tracing slowly over Arthur's brow, an unspoken spell as he went sealing the wound on Arthur's forehead that had caused the pink tinge to his hair. "He'll always be here, until the next time Albion needs him."

"What do you mean, Merlin? We need him now. Can't you just—can't you bring him back?" Leon, always the most level-headed of them all, asked.

Merlin shook his head. As much as he wanted to, wished he could, he knew it wasn't a possibility. Whatever it was that he'd said that had made his eyes flash with gold, that left Arthur's skin still flushed with a low warmth, he knew it wasn't going to make Arthur open his eyes now. Not yet, but some day.

"He was dying, he was dying and the words—" He sighed, brushing a tiny piece of leaf matter from Arthur's hair. "I'm not sure exactly what it was I said, but I know it means we need to keep him safe for when Albion needs him once more. Avalon. I need to take him to Avalon." Merlin wasn't sure why he knew this, either, but as he found himself speaking it appeared to be the most logical of ideas.

Leon started in with another question, but Gwaine stopped him. "I believe what Merlin says. If we can somehow have Arthur back again, we need to believe this is for the best. Now, where is this Avalon, Merlin?"

And so it was that the Knights who had so valiantly fought by Arthur's side for years now bore him upon their shoulders and made their way over a series of nights and days to a lake that was shrouded in mist and mystery. They asked not any further questions but put their trust in Merlin, as they had done for longer than they knew. When it was time to take that final step, Merlin had them stand aside, much to their displeasure. He placated them all, told them they would all meet again; and with a kiss for each one, he and Arthur departed on an old boat that appeared when it was time and floated off, away from the shore.

Merlin used his magic to carry his sleeping king on a path he couldn't see but knew to follow; perhaps a force greater than either of them was guiding them once more. Their fate, although twisted from what Merlin had thought was their true course, still guiding them onwards to a final resting place. Sconces lit themselves at their passing down into the belly of the earth, Merlin shuffling easily along the yellow stone path, following as he had done for many years previous at the back of his King. Merlin stopped only when the path widened, the cavern opening with a stone plinth in its centre. It was almost as if Avalon was waiting for them, had _been_ waiting for them.

Merlin laid Arthur down, fussed around with his armour and cloak, ensured Excalibur was straight on his chest, and finally, finally sat down beside his King. His Arthur. The Arthur who would be his again.

The moon and stars and sun swirled overhead. Time passed, as it does for those who are left behind, in a manner that felt longer than it was. Not for Merlin, though. His wait felt endless, his tears slowing and starting and wracking his body until he slid down from his seated position and lay beside the silent man who his eyes never left. Merlin found he wanted not for food or sleep, not here in the place where Arthur rested. He could not find it within himself to call it a tomb. A tomb indicated death, alluded to a body that was never to rise, which Merlin felt was not the case. He knew, with a surety he could not explain, one day Arthur would come back. Merlin also knew he would be here waiting when Arthur did.

One day, none too different from all that had passed before, Merlin decided it was time to leave. He had said as much as he could to his sleeping King. Had whispered thousands of secrets, truths he'd never have said to Arthur but had thought all the same. Yet today, of all the days, there was something Merlin could feel tugging at him, urging him out and up and away, back to the land above. He pressed a kiss to Arthur's hand, the ring he'd bowed over so many times in court once Arthur had borne the crown of King upon his brow. With a heavy heart, Merlin turned and made his way out, knowing it wouldn't be long before he was back to see if it was Albion's time to have her King once more.

.

.

The world had changed little in Merlin's time away from it. The air tasted the same, the grass looked as green, and the forest still grew upon the shore. It was all so similar, so familiar that Merlin wondered how much time _had_ passed if everything still looked exactly the way he had left it. He didn't turn back to the place he had come from, knowing he would return eventually. A piece of him still lingered there, through the mist and down into the cavern where fires burnt without fuel. Arthur would not have wanted him to linger, would have hated for Merlin to shut himself away while there was breath still left in his body.

As Merlin shuffled about, looking for a path to some sort of civilisation, there came a smattering of noise through the bushes. A man appeared, an old man with features that Merlin recognised but couldn't quite place.

"Merlin? Is that . . . Merlin!" the man cried, his lined face wet with tears as he ran to where Merlin stood stunned. The man wrapped his arms around Merlin, almost spun him about before dropping him none too ceremoniously and resting his hand at the small of his back with a pained curse.

"Gods, I hate being old. Not that you'd have that problem, would you?"

Merlin shook his head, staring at the sight before him, this man so familiar yet so much older than the person he reminded Merlin of.

"You—you look exactly the same. How can you look exactly the same?"

Merlin shrugged his shoulders, not exactly understanding what the man was saying. "You speak as if we are familiar with each other, friend. But I'm afraid I've misplaced your name."

The man stopped his stretching and looked at Merlin more closely, then stepped into Merlin's space and put his hands upon Merlin's shoulders. "Don't recognise me? Of course you don't. You've only been gone twenty-odd years, not aged a day—and here am I, past the prime of my youth, and you've got me feeling as young as you look!" the man said with a sigh, his long, salt and pepper hair shaking with the tilt of his head. "How can you say you don't remember me when all I can think of is the time we spent together? Riding off to save Arthur's arse, or you helping me out of some brawl I'd gotten myself into. How can you forget me?"

"Gwaine? Gwaine?" The man nodded as Merlin said his name, and then his arms were around Merlin and Merlin's tears—for the first time in what was apparently twenty years—were tears of joy. Gwaine. The first of his few friends outside of Ealdor and Camelot. The second of Arthur's knights to ever learn of Merlin's magic and who had kept it a secret until Merlin felt Arthur was ready to know. Gwaine, who had always been there for Merlin, who'd always had his back.

"They all said you were dead, you know," Gwaine started some time later as they sat in front of a fire, sipping at strong mead that apparently Gwaine had brewed himself. They'd talked all afternoon and into the night; Gwaine had updated Merlin on all the goings-on he'd missed, and Merlin—well, Merlin didn't have much—that is, anything—to add. "Not me, though, I knew you'd come back. You weren't meant to be stuck there with him. Arthur would have hated knowing you'd waited there even this long."

Merlin nodded. "I would have waited longer. I had no thought of leaving him there on his own. But something, something called me back." He sipped his drink and slid lower down into the mountain of furs Gwaine had laid upon him. He was wearing clothes that were slightly too big, and Gwaine had promised he'd take them into town in the morning and get Merlin something new for his own. They'd call upon Percival and Elyan, who ran the smithy there. Leon was further out; it would take a few days' ride to get to where he lived with his wife now—now that Camelot was no longer. Another King on another throne in another castle looked after their lands now. There was mostly peace amongst its peoples; certainly not anything like there had been when Arthur had been at his best, but a peace nonetheless.

"Maybe it was me., Gwaine said softly. Merlin had to turn his head to be sure Gwaine had even spoken. "I've been—I've been so alone for so long now and I missed you. I missed my friend, Merlin. And now—now you're here and you look," he sighed, "you look just like it was yesterday that you sailed out there. But it cannot be, because here I am with wrinkles and spots and hair that no longer shines in the light and you—you're still you."

Merlin smiled at his friend, feeling the warmth of not only the mead working its way around his limbs but friendship and love keeping his body warm. Gwaine had always hinted at wanting more from their relationship than just friendship, but Merlin had had Arthur—without ever having _had_ him—and had always pushed Gwaine away. Maybe that's what was different this time; maybe he was meant to finally have something for himself now that there was nothing he could do for Arthur but wait. He leaned over, murmuring Gwaine's name. His fingertips slid along the rough beard that covered Gwaine's jaw and up into his hair, still so thick that it curled around Merlin's fingers, grey or not. Gwaine smiled, stunned for a moment, before meeting Merlin halfway in a kiss that was soft and sweet and filled with everything he hoped a first kiss would be.

So began the next phase in Merlin's long life. They figured it out eventually, Merlin's prolonged life due to some strange aging process, and Gwaine's rapidly ending one. For every ten years he had with Gwaine, Merlin looked barely a year older. Eventually time caught up with them and the Gwaine who used to chase him around the hut now could hardly walk without his cane. The visits to Gwaine's fellow Knights became something "we'll do in the summer, it's far too cold to make Evelyn ride through that snow." Then the news was brought that Leon had passed, and then one spring morning Merlin woke to find Gwaine staring at him with eyes that would see no more.

Burying his friend and lover cost Merlin more than just a broken heart.

He cursed the fact that he was still so young, forever doomed to walk the earth while all those he had cared about left him. Eventually, even his friends' children's children were gone, and then there was no one left who Merlin could recall. He felt himself tiring, his body weakening like those of his long-ago love. His hair turned white and he let his beard grow. He frightened himself once when he caught his image in the window of an inn and saw only Dragoon in the reflection. Had it really been that long? Or had time finally caught up with him?

One morning he awoke and it was with new hands that he rubbed at gritty eyes, a new body that sprang out of a bed made of wood, and when he staggered into a place he somehow knew was called a bathroom, he saw brown curls and green eyes staring back at him in a thoroughly different face. His mind whirred with new memories and old. He knew his name was not Merlin, as it had been, but Patrick. He knew he worked at a sawmill and knew what a sawmill was and what it was for. New and old had meshed so completely in his mind that this body had lived for twenty-four years without realizing that he had been here—in this England—before.

The first thing Merlin/Patrick did was look for his friends. There were no Du Lacs in his home town or in the next three towns over. No one had ever heard of Hunith or Gaius. No Gwaines and no Pendragons, either.

He was alone.

And so the years went on and Merlin lived many lives with many faces. Sometimes there were shades of the face he knew best; sometimes it was his eyes or his cheekbones, one time his ridiculous ears. Parts of who he was, who he had been, but never completely whole.

As well, whenever he would "wake up" (as Ben/Jonathon/James/Elton, and that one time as Bob) he would look and look for the others, but never truly found any of them. Pieces, yes, but never quite who they had been. Gwaine's laugh, Elyan's thoughtful gaze, Percival's large hands, Lancelot's smile—even, that one time, Morgana's sarcastic wit—but never _them._

The same, however, could not be said for Arthur. In some lives, when Merlin was bored or had had enough of _waiting_ , he'd find his way to Avalon. In bodies he'd learned to live in he'd make his way back to its magic shores and down to where Arthur still lay.

Arthur never changed.

Never aged, never looked any different from when Merlin had left him there.

It pained Merlin more than he'd ever thought possible.

Years, decades passed, and still it was the same. Merlin aged, and lived out lives with new friends, found love in many forms, and lived without ever _truly_ feeling like he belonged. He knew, even as he married and had children and felt _happy_ with his life, that it wasn't enough. There was something more that he was destined for.

The waiting? One can only do it for so long.

And it had been long, so very long, since he'd first sat there beside his King as he did now. His Arthur. Merlin felt the time painfully. Countless lives he'd had, yet he knew them all. His head was filled with their past, filled with his own—every year, every moment he'd come here hoping, only to have his hopes dashed again. He saw only Arthur now. Arthur, who slept on peacefully, looking exactly the same as he had so very long ago—centuries now—since Merlin had brought him here to rest.

Rest.

What rest had Merlin had? Arthur had lain here day after day into years and longer, and Merlin? Merlin had lived without truly living at all. Almost a millennia of different faces, places, loves gained and lost, and to what end? To sit here now at the end of the twentieth century and still feel no closer to having Arthur back than he had the day he'd first managed to leave this tomb? Because that was what it was. It wasn't a waiting place, as he'd thought. It wasn't anything but a place for Arthur to stay and for Merlin to continue this ridiculous _waiting_.

When did he get to say _no more?_ How many times did he have to come back and look and listen for any sign of any difference, only to be left bereft when there was none?

How many times could he say goodbye without really being able to say it all?

"Enough," Merlin whispered, his voice carrying through the empty chamber as if he'd shouted the word. He pulled the vial from his pocket, pressed one last kiss to Arthur's brow, and sighed. "Enough."

Merlin tipped the lavender-hued potion into his mouth; the bitter taste of herbs and things were sharp on his tongue. Quick words were and his eyes flared bright gold as he dropped the glass to the ground, its bounce and subsequent roll across the stone floor forgotten the moment the words left his lips.

He didn't see the tremble in Arthur's thumb—the one where he had worn the ring Merlin had made for his thirtieth birthday and never taken off. Merlin didn't see the flutter of dark blond lashes and the bright blue that flashed between then. He didn't feel the hairs at the back of his own neck being disturbed by a most unnatural wind as he lay down beside his Arthur. He felt nothing, saw nothing. There was only peace-filled emptiness that swallowed him whole.

.

.

He was late. He was so fucking late that he was sure by the time he'd got to work he wouldn't have a job at all. How many times could you arrive well after your start time and still expect to earn a pay check at the end of the week?

He rushed through the crowded streets; sharp ends of extended brolly's not shifted quickly enough caught on his skin and tugged at the threads of his thin jumper. If he didn't already look like a drowned rat, he'd now have ratty dresser to add to the equation—not a great sign in his line of work, but then he probably wouldn't have a job after today, so that really didn't matter, either.

All he had to do was cross the bridge—three more streets and four flights of stairs (why did his building have to be the one with the elevator broken almost constantly?)—and maybe, just _maybe_ skirt past reception and into the spare change of clothes he left on the premises for just such an occasion, and _maybe_ his boss wouldn't notice how extremely late he was.

He ran. The bridge was nearly empty (people having chosen other, smarter forms of transport than their feet in the inclement weather) apart from the odd suit with umbrella, but still there were enough people that he had to dodge and weave, barely able to see more than a few feet in front of him as the rain came down in sheets.

Then _bam!_

Of course he couldn't make it from one side of the bridge to the other without hitting something—or in this case, someone.

He was all skidding feet and elbows in the wrong places as he attempted to get up, and the man he had run into and knocked down did the same. Finally, with an exasperated sigh, his "opponent" managed to get to his feet and offered a helping hand.

The second their fingertips met—the briefest of touches—two things happened.

One, they remembered.

Two, they remembered. _Everything._

Lives he had forgotten living flashed before his eyes. The women, the men, the sex, the lovers, the heartbreaks, and places he's known in so many different forms. Names fall like the rain around them both—Gwaine, Leon, Percival, Gwen, Morgana, Gaius, Uther, Hunith, Arthur.

Arthur.

Merlin _knows_.

The first time a tiny blue light glowed in front of him when he was ten and scared in the forest, Will having left him behind after some argument that had no consequence later. The first time he saw Camelot, the high walls and fluttering flags in the wind. Then Arthur, the prat, the prince, the king, and his friend above it all.

He remembered Arthur's face, so solemn when Uther died and Arthur was declared King. He remembered the joy of Arthur's smile when the cleric announced him wed to Guinevere. He remembered the pain etched upon Arthur's brow at Lancelot's betrayal. He remembered the looks he could never place towards the end, when Arthur would press a hand to Merlin's for a second too long, Arthur's eyes filling with _something_ as they locked with Merlin's over the round table but not a word passed between them. He remembered the last battle, Arthur falling, and the desecration he, Merlin, had caused because of it. He remembered _everything._

"You were supposed to _wait._ "

It was Arthur's voice—that prattish tone of the know-it-all he thought he was—that Merlin came face to face with when he finally stopped reeling from all he had been reminded of. It was Arthur's wet blond hair and Arthur's mostly straight nose and bright blue eyes and shiny red lips. It was Arthur's nervous grin that flickered at the corners, not completely formed because it's was mixed with Arthur's smile of uncertainty. It was Arthur's fingers that slid over Merlin's skin, cupping his cheeks and holding his face firmly upwards, as if touching Merlin would make him more tangible, more real, more _here._ Merlin's needs were the same; he gripped Arthur's forearms just as tightly, enjoyed the feel of strong muscle beneath his fingertips.

The rain that had eased around them had left droplets on Arthur's lashes, three on the left, two on the right—Merlin was so close he could count them.

"I did," Merlin retorted, his dry mouth finally finding enough liquid from his reluctant swallowing to form words.

Arthur's smile widened, and Merlin _knew_ Arthur was recalling the last moments—the stupid moment when Merlin had finally given in, given up, and drunk his life's work, murmured a long forgotten and improbable spell that would allow him to wander the same paths as Arthur until Arthur could return home.

Arthur leaned in, the tip of his nose brushing Merlin's as he whispered, "You never could follow orders."

Merlin wanted to close his eyes, to take a mental picture of the now he finally was living in but found he couldn't look away. Arthur. It was Arthur.

"You didn't order me, dollophead."

Their lips tentatively touched and Merlin could feel Arthur's lips twitching at the sides. This was new for them. All the unspoken and what Merlin had felt was always to be unrequited washed away by their simple kiss. His grip tightened on Arthur's arms, Arthur's fingers slid into the inky mess that was Merlin's hair once more, and the kiss deepened, strengthened into what probably could be seen as public indecency in that day and age—in any day and age, Merlin thought, because he'd lived in them all.

"What now?" Merlin asked, after an indefinite amount of time, a few wolf whistles from well-meaning passersby, and a whole lot of tongue.

Arthur's eyes were so, so blue, matching the sky that was now shining through where the sun had burnt the thick cloud layer away almost as if by magic—which Merlin hadn't had in many lives over and done with now, but . . . .

"Forever," Arthur murmured against Merlin's lips. "Our forever starts today."


End file.
